


a god was on my side

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [242]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Almost an outsider POV...of both Beren and Mithrim, F/M, Gen, Interlude, Mithrim, Political Alliances, title from a poem by Rachel McKibbens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24399844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Beren had formed an unfortunate habit of brushing up against legends. Few knew him—all of him—well enough to draw this conclusion, but he knew it of himself.
Relationships: Beren Erchamion & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Beren Erchamion & Original Character(s), Beren Erchamion/Lúthien Tinúviel
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [242]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	a god was on my side

The evening meal in Mithrim was both quiet and crowded. The newcomers did not mingle with the old inhabitants, except for sheepish nods and a muttered word of thanks here and there. If one wished to observe them closely, which Beren did, it was wise to do so only out of the corner of an eye. A bolder glance would have seemed as striking as a word spoken aloud, in that particular stillness.

There was meat, potatoes, apples baked with real cinnamon-spice, and bread fresher than any to be had on the road. However, Beren did not eat much. He had learned the value of having a stomach empty enough to fight or flee as needed.

Yes, he was cautious. Not by nature, for he believed that nature gave only gifts to the mind and spirit. Nature could make a man brave, curious, affectionate. Pain made a man hesitate, waiting for the signal to run.

He was not running now. He had nowhere to go, and Finrod was a true friend. There were others, too. Fingolfin and his children. Wachiwi, who had separated from Haleth’s band to offer her help.

The strange little children he had met mere days ago.

Since arriving at the broad-fronted fort, he had not wandered its halls as much as some of the others. For one thing, he had been weary. Supervising the passage of the tents, the meal-sacks, the stout half-barrels of salted meat—that was heavy work. Important, too. These additions to the collective supply were also gifts, but not from nature.

The meal and the meat and everything else had melted into Mithrim’s storerooms. It seemed that Mithrim’s people were grateful, though their need, in this mild-wintered land, was not particularly great.

Still: the quiet. The sounds of chewing. A cough; a splash of water on the worn table-boards. Beren was seated opposite Wachiwi, and beside him, Sticks and Frog kicked their feet against the benches. There were surprisingly identical frowns on their small faces.

They were suffering. He had already heard, from Estrela, that they would not keep away from the sickroom where their rescuer lay. Beren had not had much sight of the man himself. He had seen the missing hand, of course. Everyone who came within a dozen paces of him looked for _that_ , once rumor spread.

Beren had formed an unfortunate habit of brushing up against legends. Few knew him— _all_ of him—well enough to draw this conclusion, but he knew it of himself. It had all begun with the great loss, and the lesser loss. The lesser loss, of course, was the wound to his hand. Most boys in his condition, five (or was it six?) years ago would have died.

He didn’t.

Luthien had been his first legend. Perhaps that was why she ate up his heart, and he offered all of himself quite willingly to her, lest she find anything else to her liking. She sat beside his bed and the stars wreathed her hair, even at the height of day. She touched his skin and he brushed his twisted hand against Death’s.

Thingol had been another kind of legend. The kind of sky-seeing chieftain who knew his power stretched and chased field, forest, and river. Beren had to stay far from Doriath, if he was ever to see Luthien again. That contradiction was not one of life’s gifts.

There were legend-men in Mithrim, too. Finrod and his kin and his angry half-kin. Beren had more than a moment’s passing feeling for those who displayed discomfort on their faces.

No doubt they did not know where they stood, once-content allies now trapped in the midst of an incomprehensible family war.

 _My father is not afraid of the world_ , Luthien explained to him, once. _He wants the world to be afraid of_ him _. It is very constraining._

He had not then known enough of her tongue to be sure of taking her whole meaning. Later, he had not known if he agreed.

Now, he considered the truth of her words. Not about Thingol, perhaps, but as a choice for men and women to make, blindly at sometimes and not at others.

Could one make one’s place in the world so willfully?

It might well be his lot only to watch.


End file.
